


Iron

by belleslettres



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 20:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15155165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belleslettres/pseuds/belleslettres
Summary: Draco also has a penchant for shirts with fiddly collars and cuffs and will not even entertain the notion of going anywhere looking like anything less than perfection.But Harry, who will do almost anything for Draco, refuses to iron them.“My aunt used to make me do all the ironing,” Harry says. “I hated it.”





	Iron

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

  
_**Iron-**_ (noun) _1\. A strong, hard magnetic silvery-grey metal_  
_2\. Used figuratively as symbol or type of firmness, strength, or resistance_  
_3\. Fetters or handcuffs_  
_4\. A handheld implement with a flat steel base that is heated and used to smooth clothes, sheets, etc._  
(verb) _To smooth clothes, sheets, etc. with an iron_  


* * *

  


Of all the chores Aunt Petunia used to make him do, Harry hated ironing the most. 

He remembers... when he was still small enough for the iron to be heavy in his hand, when he still needed a stool to be tall enough to reach the ironing board properly… his aunt pulling out a stack of wrinkled handkerchiefs and teaching him how to iron—the way _her_ mother taught her.

She showed him how to spread a handkerchief out on the ironing board, how to mist it gently, how to smooth the wrinkles out with his fingers first. 

“My mother always said ninety percent of ironing was done with the fingers,” Aunt Petunia said. 

She showed him how to move the hot iron across the fabric, using his fingers to smooth if first, then hold it flat, moving them only at the last second.

“You have to be careful that everything is smooth when you iron it,” she explained… patiently, for once. “Otherwise, you’ll just be ironing _in_ wrinkles, and then they are so much more difficult to get out.”

Harry remembers being happy—this small connection between him, his aunt, and his unknown grandmother—who was also the mother of _his_ mother. 

“Did grandmother teach my mother, too?” Harry ventured. 

“Of course not,” his aunt snapped. “ _Our_ mother always thought _Lily_ was much too important for such simple household tasks. Ironing was always _my_ responsibility. But _you_ aren’t too important, though, are you little freak? No. _You_ will learn to do it… and learn to do it properly.”

She left him then wishing he hadn’t asked about his mother… wishing he could have kept hold of that happy moment… when he felt like he _belonged_... for just a little while longer. She left him with the hot iron and the stack of wrinkled handkerchiefs, telling him there would be no lunch until they were perfect. 

Harry worked hard. It took him a long time and he was hungry. But he ironed and ironed and carefully folded the handkerchiefs. 

And proudly showed them to Aunt Petunia. 

She yelled at him and showed _him_ how the hems were still turned under, little bumpy edges around each square of fabric. 

She dragged him back to the ironing board, to the hot iron.

She smoothed a handkerchief out on the ironing board. It was the palest blue and had a large “D” embroidered in one corner. 

“You need to use your fingers,” she said, “to hold the hem flat.”

Harry tried. He really did. But his tiny fingers were too small, too uncoordinated, and he always pulled them away too soon.

“You need to use your _fingers_.”

Aunt Petunia took one of his hands, spreading his fingers out along the wrinkled hem. With her own bony hand, she held his in place, her palm pressing sharply against his knuckles. Then she picked up the iron with her other hand, sliding it to the hem, sliding it right into the tips of his fingers.

It didn’t burn. At least not in the way scalding dishwater burned.

It felt… cold, maybe, which seemed wrong. And sharp. And it hurt more than anything ever had.

Harry knew better than to scream, but he couldn’t stop the tears that filled his eyes.

“Do them again,” she said. “And make sure they are done _properly_ this time. Use your fingers.”

~*~

It wasn’t very long before Harry could do the handkerchiefs quickly and perfectly. He learned how to iron sheets, then shirts and slacks. He learned how to make perfect collars and perfect cuffs and how to iron creases into trouser legs and out of shirt sleeves. He learned about starch and steam and how much heat to use on which fabrics.

He learned how to move his fingers at the very last second—how to avoid burns. 

Usually.

The day he scorched one of Uncle Vernon’s shirts, Aunt Petunia held the hot iron to his palm and then locked him in his cupboard for three days straight. When she let him out to use the bathroom, he was able to gulp some water from the tap. There was no food.

That was the last ironing mistake he ever made.

~*~

By the time he left Privet Drive for the last time, he could iron _anything_ , even the frilliest of Aunt Petunia’s dresses, to perfection.

He hasn’t picked up an iron since. 

He wears tee-shirts and jumpers when he can get away with it… and when he can’t, he buys shirts and dress robes charmed to be wrinkle-free. The charms barely function, but who, really, is going to care if the Savior of the Wizarding World’s clothes look a bit rumpled.

  


* * *

  


Draco cares.

Draco also has a penchant for shirts with fiddly collars and cuffs and will not even entertain the notion of going anywhere looking like anything less than perfection.

But Harry, who will do almost _anything_ for Draco, refuses to iron them.

“My aunt used to make me do all the ironing,” Harry says. “I hated it.”

He says it in that off-hand way that he uses when he is avoiding saying something that is truly terrible. He says it in that way that makes Draco want to storm over to the Dursley’s house—Draco’s take the trouble to learn where it is—and torture them with the most vicious, most excruciating, Cruciatus curse he can muster. 

He doesn’t do it _only_ because Harry would never forgive him for landing himself in Azkaban. 

So he wishes, briefly, for a house-elf and then quietly asks Granger if she can give him a lesson in Muggle ironing—because, unless you’re a house elf, smoothing a hot iron across fabric is really the way to go. 

And if suddenly Harry’s clothes all lose their rumpled look… well, both he and Harry pretend not to notice.

~*~

Draco _should_ have left the office an hour ago. He should have… but he didn’t because he wanted to finish that last report.

He did it for the same reason that he is always first into the office in the mornings, and the reason he is always last to leave. The reason he always works harder than he needs to… maybe even harder than he _should_ …

Sometimes he tells himself that it’s because he loves his job—and he does!—but really it’s because he wants to be seen as someone other than _that Death Eater_.

The one who they all hate, the one they would fire if they could… but they can’t because he’s _Harry Potter’s_ boyfriend. 

Draco knows he’s damn good at his job… but he can’t seem to go more than a day or two without doing something utterly heroic to prove it. 

So not he’s running late.

Tragically late.

Possibly even epically late.

He Floos into their flat with only moments, really, to get ready for yet another Ministry gala, which is just part of dating Harry Potter.

Harry hates them. Granger and Weasley hate them. Even Kingsley Shacklebolt hates them, Draco suspects. And yet everyone dresses in his or her finest and trots out to this function, or that charity event, with alarming regularity. 

Draco does _not_ hate them.

He doesn’t enjoy them, precisely, but attending them, and attending them _well_ … well that was what he was raised to do. Etiquette, conversation, the art of charisma… they were bred into his very bones. 

If not for the Dark Lord… if not for his father’s, and then his own, truly horrible decisions, _he_ would be the well-received guest… moving around the room, speaking with everyone. People would ask for _his_ ideas regarding policies and political candidates, he would curry favor and have favor curried. And _Harry_ would be the plus-one, the one that is only invited for the sake of politeness. 

Because, while he can easily imagine a life without Voldemort, he _cannot_ imagine a life without Harry Potter.

~*~

Harry’s already half-dressed when Draco enters their bedroom.

“You’re home…,” Harry says.

“I’m late. I know. I had to finish…”

His words are cut short by Harry’s mouth, and Draco finds himself leaning in to a very through kiss. Harry holds him tightly, and just for a moment, Draco allows himself to relax, to melt, even, into Harry’s arms. He feels the knots in his shoulders slip away, feels the tension in his forehead release. 

He might even sigh out loud. 

“The world won’t end, Draco, if we’re a couple of minutes late to this stupid thing. What is it, the tenth one this month?”

“Third.” 

Draco laughs just a little, taking a moment to cup Harry’s cheek. 

“Feels like the fortieth,” Harry grumbles.

Draco runs his thumb across his boyfriend’s perfectly pouting mouth. Harry snaps at it.

“I need to shower,” Draco says, bending quickly for one more kiss. “I’ll be fast.”

“I won’t come help, then,” Harry says.

Draco laughs again and goes—alone—into the ensuite.

~*~

Harry’s right, of course; the world won’t end if they’re late.

But there’s a science… an _art_ to timing one’s arrival to these things—and Draco is very, very good at it. What is the purpose of the event? What is _your_ purpose in going to it? Who else is on the guest list? Certain guests should be in the room when you arrive, others need to come in after you. 

It’s the War Orphans Charity tonight… fundraising. That will mean that all of the remaining Pureblood families will attend, more than willing to spread about their fading fortunes to prove to the rest of the Wizarding World that _they_ never held with the Dark Lord’s ideals, that _they_ harbor no blood prejudices. A number of the old families from the Continent will be in attendance—Draco’s French is flawless, of course, and he can affect fluency in both Italian and German—and even a few people from America. But a lot of the real wealth comes from the Muggle side of the Wizarding World. 

The War Orphans Charity is headed by Draco’s Aunt Andromeda—helping both Wizarding children and Muggleborn children, most of whom were too young to even know they were witches or wizards until their families were killed. They want to build a proper orphanage and Draco’s main objective tonight is to use Harry’s fame and the goodwill surrounding his name to see that sizable donations are made. His minor objectives include not being called a Death Eater, not eating anything containing quince jelly, and arriving home in time to make love to is boyfriend _and_ still get a proper night’s sleep. 

Draco showers, then dries his hair as quickly as perfection will allow. 

He wants to arrive _after_ the Parkinsons and the Brocklehursts, but _before_ Finch-Fletchley and his new wife. 

If everything goes perfectly, they might make it.

Except… 

_Fuck…_

He hasn’t ironed his dress robes yet. Nor Harry’s.

Harry’s won’t be a problem. They’re simple enough… Harry won’t wear anything more eye-catching than simple (though extremely well-made) robes. Actually, he would buy something off the rack if Draco would let him; Draco doesn’t. Harry's dress robes resemble nothing more flashy than the simplest Muggle tuxedo—black robes, black tie, with a plain-front shirt, a simple collar—not a speck of color anywhere, save for his eyes, glowing like green jewels from behind his glasses. The shirt can be ironed in moments, the trousers and vest will be fine, Draco took great care when he hung them up after their last gala, the robe may need the smallest touch-up. 

But _his_ robes…

Draco _actually_ feels his heart fall.

They’re new, purchased especially for tonight. He shouldn’t have… they were hideously expensive, but just _so_ perfect. The darkest charcoal that could still be called grey, the fabric run through with a single thread of emerald. The girl at the shop… Pansy, obviously… even Granger assumed the green is a nod to Slytherin House. They’re wrong; he chose it to match Harry’s eyes.

The robes need a proper pressing, and the lapels have to be done _just so_. The trousers and vest need attention. And the shirt has rows of tiny buttons, pleats that are damn near ruffles, and, the fiddliest collar he’s ever seen. Merlin only knows how long it will take him to iron it properly…

They’ll _never_ make it.

He could wear the black—the ones he’s worn to every event this year. It would only take him moments to press out that shirt. Or even the navy, though it’s the height of summer and his navy robes always struck him as having an autumnal look about them. 

He steps out of the ensuite trying, unsuccessfully, to fish his heart out the bottom of the very deep well it’s fallen into. It’s stupid, he tells himself, they’re just robes. No one cares what _he_ looks like. No one cares to see _him_ at all, really. The black dress robes are perfectly serviceable. He just… 

Wishes that crawling into bed, that spending the evening _there_ was an option. 

It isn’t. 

He gathers up the pieces of himself that want to cry and the pieces that want to hide and that one piece that wants to shout _this isn't fair_ and marshals them all into obedience. He has to hurry if he’s going to get two shirts ironed in time. 

He walks to the wardrobe. And stops. Forgetting to breathe.

There, hanging on the door, are his new dress robes.

Ironed. And perfect. 

There isn’t a single wrinkle that shouldn’t be there, or crease that should be there that isn’t. 

“Get dressed, Draco. We can still get there on time.”

Harry, already wearing _his_ perfectly pressed robes, plays the valet… even tying Draco’s tie for him. Then he steps back, and judging by the look on his face, is simply admiring him.

Either that, or thinking about flinging Draco onto the bed and undoing all the work he’s just done. 

“God, you look gorgeous,” Harry says. 

“Harry… I…”

“Shhh…” Harry presses a finger to Draco’s lips. “I knew you would run late. And I knew how much you wanted to wear those tonight.”

“But… you hate ironing.”

“Yeah, but I love _you_.” Harry picks up Draco’s hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the backs of his fingers. “And I did really want to see you in these robes. They suit you.”

“Do they?”

It comes out in a whisper.

“Fuck, yeah. The color’s perfect for your skin… your hair… it brings out the grey in your eyes… so beautiful. Almost like silver, but stronger… like iron. But that thread of green… you almost can’t see it, but it’s _there_ … running through everything…”

Harry hasn’t let go of Draco’s hand and rubs his thumb gently over the knuckles. 

“It’s the color of my eyes,” Harry says quietly.

“Yes, it is.”

"When you wear them, you match my eyes."

"I know." Gently Draco twists his hand free and brings it up to cup Harry’s cheek. “I love you, Harry.” 

Harry turns his head, kissing Draco’s palm. “We’d better go,” he says.

Draco feels his eyes fall, briefly, on the bed. His desire to crawl into it is just as strong as it was a few moments before… but now for completely different reasons. He feels Harry’s eyes follow his. 

“We _have_ to go,” he says. "But I think it would be all right if we left a little early. Just this once."

_~Fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> I've always sort of thought that, in works of literature, _symbolism_ was, more or less, something invented by 10th grade English teachers for the purpose of making it easier to write and grade 10th grade English quizzes. But as I was writing this, I did A Thing, and pretended I was Mrs. T's idea of a "good" author. (It was fun.) So, please, if you're so moved, _you_ please pretend you are in 10th grade English, too, and discuss. 
> 
> Seriously, though, I love kudos, of course, but questions, comments, and constructive criticism _really_ make me happy! Thank you for reading!!! 
> 
> Please visit me on Tumblr as [belleslettres-love](https://belleslettres-love.tumblr.com/).


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